


In the Fox Hole

by Happy9450



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 09:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10591275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happy9450/pseuds/Happy9450
Summary: Will learns more about what was going on with Mac while he was in the federal lock-up for contempt of court.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A comment that SueG5123 left on my last story got me thinking about writing more about Mac and Charlie during the time that Will was incarcerated, and shortly after she discovers that she's pregnant.

For the last three years, Will McAvoy believed that MacKenzie had made it through his time in the federal lock-up without nightmares or any sort of PTSD flare-up. It was what Mac had led him to believe. More to the point, it was what Jim believed. Now, he sat staring at Nancy Skinner, whose casual remark had just up-ended this reality. 

He'd gone down to the hospital cafeteria with Nancy and Leona Lansing after MacKenzie had drifted off to sleep, her first sleep in more than thirty hours, the last twenty-two of which had been spent delivering the nine pound, two ounce baby boy they had named Walter Duncan, and had already started calling, “Dunk.” Will was almost as exhausted as his wife, but still too keyed up to sleep. Rubbing his gritty eyes, he tried to remember what Nancy had been talking about before she'd referenced “those couple of days Charlie spent with Mac.” She'd said it as though Will would know exactly what she was talking about. 

Will’s first thought had been that Charlie had slept with MacKenzie when he went to find her in Washington and offer her the job of Executive Producer of News Night. It was easy for Will to imagine Charlie seeing Mac there, gorgeous, frail and traumatized, and letting his instinct to comfort slip into attraction and seduction, easy since Will could not imagine any heterosexual male over the age of fourteen who would not want to bed MacKenzie McHale. But, no, it wasn't logical. In fact, it was just plain crazy. Mac jumping between the sheets with the president of ACN, who had just offered her a job was totally out of character. And Charlie . . . Christ! What was he thinking . . . Charlie had gone searching for MacKenzie because of him, because Charlie knew that he was still in love with her, still needed her . . . . Will had looked up to find the two women intently studying the confusion evident on his face.

“You don't know about it, do you?” Nancy asked, slightly amused by his stunned introspection.

“Know about what?” he'd replied somewhat blearily.

“The Spring you were locked up . . . Mac had some rough times, including a couple of days it got really bad. She hid it well. But at one point, she wasn't sleeping and couldn't . . . or didn't want to leave the apartment. Everybody believed her when she said that she was just taking a few days off and traveling with her sister while Don EP’d the show . . .”

“It made sense since Elliot was sitting in for you most nights,” Leona interrupted helpfully.

Nancy put her hand over the fingers that Will was drumming unconsciously on the table while he listened. “But Charlie was a crafty old fox and didn't buy it.” She smiled fondly. 

“This was how long after I went in?”

“Near the end . . . right after she got back from that thing at Northwestern. It was only a couple days, well, maybe a week or so before you were released . . . before Charlie died.”

“June . . . of course.” Will closed his eyes as it all made sense. “He never told me, and he visited me a couple of times right before . . . I got out.”

Nancy smiled again, as Lee spoke. “Mac wouldn't let him. She'd have killed him if he'd so much as made you suspect that she was having problems.”

“He was a damn good liar because I grilled him about Mac every time I saw him.” Will’s tired mind drifted back to the last time Charlie had visited him, the last time he'd seen Charlie alive.

“Truth, Charlie . . . how is she?”

Charlie Skinner pondered his answer, looking around the visitor’s room, studying the other detainees and their various girlfriends, parents, wives and families, trying to find the right tone that would be reassuring and convincing. 

“She’s strong . . . and so proud of you . . . “ Charlie paused, “and throughly miserable, living alone in a half-finished apartment without her husband.” Charlie shook his head. “I can't tell you how fucking hard it is to watch this after seeing her so . . . blissful these last months.” He chuckled, looked away and seemed to continue speaking to himself, “I used to try and imagine what she'd look like truly happy. It kept me going,” he turned back to Will, “when you were pushing her away, and I wanted to despair that you'd ever get your head out of your ass and let that woman love you. But nothing I'd imagined came close to the beauty of seeing her . . . “ Charlie seemed to be casting around for a description. Finally, bringing both hands into the air and spreading his fingers, he finished, “open like a flower in your hands. Even on Election Night when she was beyond exhaustion . . . .” He trailed off smiling at the memory. Then, he looked at Will, sitting across from him in federal-issue khakis, and returned to the question at hand. “So, to answer your question, she's holding on and she's waiting for you.” There, Charlie thought, what he'd said was true, not the whole truth, but true enough.

“I ache for her, Charlie.” Will clenched his fists on the table, causing Charlie to observe how much the muscles in his forearms had developed. “The pain of missing her is physical. It's always been physical. For so many years, I lived with the ache of wanting her. It was the most constant thing in my life. Sometimes I thought I would die of it. Sometimes I wanted to die.” Will paused, staring into space. “Even after you found her and brought her back to me, I was such an idiot. I couldn't stop inflicting pain on us both.” 

“Well, that’s all in the past now,” Charlie grinned at him. “Ain't it grand the way things are . . . you just have to hang on until Rebecca can get you out of this place, and then go home to your wife.”

“Yeah,” Will answered dreamily, “my wife. My wife.”

 

The truth . . . the truth that Charlie didn't tell Will . . . was that he had become increasingly concerned about the toll Will’s incarceration seemed to be taking on Mac. Since she'd told him about the baby, she'd been avoiding him, avoiding the subject of her pregnancy, and, from what he could observe, had seemed to grow more fearful about something with each passing day. 

Three days before his last visit with Will, Charlie had gone looking for Mac, determined to have a conversation about what-the-fuck was going on. It was the morning she was supposed to be back in the studio after traveling to Chicago to attend a symposium on ethics and journalism at Northwestern University. When he couldn't find her, he'd located Jim, who'd told him that Mac had called that morning to ask him and Don to keep on covering for her because her sister was in town, and she was taking a few more days off to be with Cat. Jim said that they were going out to the end of Long Island to a place they’d gone on holiday as children. Charlie had laughed at Jim’s mimicking Mac’s accent as he'd used the British idiom for what Americans called a vacation.

Jim clearly believed her, and it sounded plausible, even reasonable, but Charlie couldn't shake the suspicion that it just didn't add up somehow. He chewed on it all day, telling himself that he was making a mountain out of a molehill. Finally, as he was watching Sloan wrap up News Night, he called Nancy. She told him to go and check on Mac.

Someone was knocking on the apartment door. What the fuck! MacKenzie jolted back to reality, and found herself sitting on the floor in her almost empty living room barely able to recall how she gotten there or how long she'd been like that. Five, ten minutes. She had thought that ignoring the ringing of the antiquated house phone would be enough to convince whomever it was to go away. Obviously, she'd been wrong. It was Jim, most likely, although unless she was mistaken about the time of day, Jim needed to be doing Elliott’s show, not checking on her. Mac pulled herself up from the cushion she and Will had been using as a sofa and stood unsteadily. It couldn't be Jim. She'd spoken to Jim that morning, at least she thought it had been that morning, but whenever it was, she was sure he'd believed her story that Cat had shown up unexpectedly and was dragging her off for a long weekend at the shore to take her mind off of Will and Pruitt and everything. 

Taking a few deep breaths, Mac walked unsteadily towards the entryway. “Hello. Who is it?” she asked as she approached the door.

“Mac, it's me . . . Charlie.”

What! Good God! Charlie, here . . . now! How had Charlie gotten upstairs? Panic overtook her, and she considered just running into the bedroom, closing the door, and ignoring him until he went away. No, of course that wouldn't work. She needed to get rid of him. 

“Charlie. . . . Um . . . Yes . . . Well . . . This isn't a good time. I've got a touch . . . .” She was going to say of stomach flu but then realized that it would make him worried about her, rather than send him away. She thought for a second of claiming to have partied with Cat the night before and to be suffering from a hangover, but then realized that Charlie knew the she was pregnant and wouldn't believe her. “Charlie, I'm really not . . . not finished packing and my sister’s picking me up any minute . . . .”

“Jim told everybody that you left this morning,” Charlie interrupted.

“Yes . . . Well . . . We were supposed to go early, but something came up and we were delayed.”

“Okay,” Charlie said brightly, “I won't get in your way, and I won't stay long.”

“But I need to get in the shower . . . .”

“I thought you said you were leaving momentarily.”

“Well, that too . . . God, Charlie, what's this about?”

Silence. “I just want to see if you’re alright.” Suddenly, Charlie felt a little sheepish, showing up at her home late in the evening uninvited, following a gut feeling that he realized could be way off. What if she really was just packing to go off with her sister? Everyone else believed her. But, as far as Charlie knew, no one else knew what he did. No one else had been told that she was pregnant. He was right, Charlie reassured himself, to insist on seeing her. Besides, for his own sanity, he needed to make sure that her little impromptu vacation was just that, and not a cover for her being ill, or, God forbid . . . he almost couldn't make himself form the thought, the thought that had really brought him to her door . . . a cover for having lost the baby.

Mac sighed, feeling suddenly touched by his concern, and half tempted to open the door. “Of course, I'm alright.” She tried saying it fast and forcefully, but couldn't quite pull it off. “Don't . . . Don't be silly.”

No, Charlie thought again, something was wrong here. 

“I'm old enough to be entitled to be silly,” he replied. “Just open the door and talk to me face-to-face. Then I'll leave, and you can go back to your packing or take your shower.” He paused to see if she would answer, and when she didn't, he went on. “If you won't open the door, I'm going to sit down right here in the hall until you do.”

Sit in the hall! She flashed on Will sitting on the floor outside the conference room when Rebecca was interviewing her about Genoa, and realized that Charlie wasn't going to be anymore amenable to reason that Will had been. Because they love me, she thought, and felt her eyes burning with emotion. 

“Okay. You win. Give me a moment.” She dashed into the bathroom, splashed water on her face and ran a brush through her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail that she hoped would conceal the fact that it hadn't been washed for a two days. There wasn't much she could do about the dark circles under her eyes. She applied a little makeup and let it go.

Taking slow deep breaths, MacKenzie walked to the door as calmly as she could, and opened it. Charlie stood there with a slightly strained smile on his face. He scrutinized the beautiful young woman standing before him in a pair of boxer shorts rolled at the waist and a faded University of Nebraska t-shirt that was five sizes too big.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi,” she answered. They stared awkwardly at each other, and Mac realized that she had no alternative but to invite Charlie in. Moving aside, she gestured for him to enter, and he stepped across the threshold onto the plywood entryway. 

“Will said you guys were living here through the construction,” Charlie commented as Mac closed the door. “I guess . . . .” His observation about the apartment drifted off forgotten as he got a good look at her eyes. He had seen that hollow, distant expression in dozens of eyes . . . the eyes of comrades, friends, and strangers, and too many times, in the eyes that gazed back at him from the mirror. He saw exhaustion and pain and fear and panic barely held in check. These were eyes that had seen too much suffering, too much violence, much too much death. But something told him that they weren't the eyes of a woman who had just had a miscarriage. Even given the concern seeing her engendered, Charlie felt a short-lived wave of relief wash over him. He didn't know what, but something had happened to return her to the past from which he'd rescued her in D.C.

“Oh, kiddo,” Charlie Skinner whispered, his heart breaking, “you’ve been having flashbacks.”

It wasn't a question, and the compassion with which he'd spoken undid her. Unable to control herself or lie to him, Mac inclined her head. Her lips trembled and she closed her eyes tightly, which did nothing to keep the hot tears from seeping out and wetting her cheeks.

“Dreams,” she answered softly. “It started in Chicago. Nightmares . . . terrible nightmares.” She gulped for air. “I'm afraid . . . to sleep.”

Charlie opened his arms and took a step toward her. “Come on,” he commanded gently. “I'm here now and we’re going to take care of this.” Mac fell against him, and wrapping her arms around his neck, hugged Charlie fiercely. It was not until that moment that she'd realized how alone she felt for the last two days. Charlie let her cry, rocking her slightly in his arms and telling her that it would pass and she'd be fine. 

When she seemed to be a little calmer, he asked, “Can you tell me about the dreams?”

She shook her head. “No. I can't. I . . . I need to . . . tell Will . . . .” Mac’s crying resumed as she tried to explain, and Charlie wasn't sure exactly what she was saying except that she needed to explain something to “Billy” and whatever it was, she believed that hearing it was going to make him hate her. Charlie didn't try to argue. Instead, he simply let her tears run their course, after which he held Mac for a long while, listening as her breathing became softer and more regular.

Finally, he spoke. “Come on, kiddo. Let's get you into bed.” 

While Mac used the bathroom, and filled the water bottle she kept beside the bed, Charlie took off his suit coat, tie, dress shirt and belt, and arranged pillows so that he could sit up against the wall on what seemed to be Will’s side of the mattress that was their bed. When Mac entered the room, she looked quizzicality at the arrangement.

“I hope you don't mind,” Charlie began. “I'm not leaving you tonight, and,” he looked around, “there’s not much else to sit on except a ten-gallon paint can.”

Mac smiled sadly. “Charlie, you should go home, and get a good night’s sleep. You don't have to do this.” But even as she said it, a little voice in her head was saying “please, please don't go . . . please don't leave me alone.”

Charlie’s reply was to climb into bed and pat the space beside him. Mac turned off the lights, and obediently joined him, resting her head on a pillow that was up against his chest, and feeling Charlie’s arm circle her shoulder and pull her close. 

“Now, relax, and close those eyes. Don't think about sleep. Just feel your body relaxing. You’re safe now. Safe with me.” 

For the second time that evening, Mac wondered how Charlie had talked his way past the doorman and onto the elevator, but just as she was working up the energy to ask, Charlie spoke again. “And let me tell you something, Mac, whatever you have to say, to tell him, your . . . “ he chuckled softly at the name, “your Billy . . . isn't going to hate you. He's incapable of hating you. Trust me. I know. I watched him try unsuccessfully to hate you for years.” As he'd hoped, Charlie heard her snickering, and felt her shoulders shake slightly with laughter. If there was one thing that everyone he'd ever known with PTSD had in common, he reflected, it was a deep appreciation for gallows humor. 

“It's just worse because he's not here to show you that he's not the same person you tried to tell about Brian Brenner,” Charlie continued. “He knows his reaction was a mistake, and, if there’s one thing you can say about Will, it's that he learns from his mistakes.”

“I know.” Mac sounded unconvinced. 

“One more thing,” Charlie said. “I'm here now. I wasn't with him in D.C. If he even thinks about going off the rails again, this time, he'll have me to deal with.” Impulsively, Charlie kissed her hair, reminding her of Will. Mac’s heart ached, but she felt calmer than she had in days. She knew it was true. If Will had had Charlie to turn to back then, things might have turned out differently. So much might have been different. Mac pulled her thoughts forcibly away from that path, away from thinking that with Charlie there to help him through his anger, Will might have been willing to listen to her, if not immediately, at least before she left for Afghanistan . . . . before . . . . Don't go there Mac commanded herself, and concentrated on keeping her breathing deep and even, concentrated on the comfort of Charlie’s arm around her. After a few minutes, felt herself relax.

They slept. Charlie eventually slumped down into a semi-reclining position, keeping Mac close. When she started to stir, Charlie awoke and looked at the clock. 4:37. She turned in his arms and curled away from him on the bed, moaning softly. She was dreaming, he knew, but so far, it didn't appear to be too bad. 

He'd no more than thought the words when the dream intensified. Her moans became wailing sobs, as she thrashed around as if in pain. Charlie knew that at times, Mac seemed to be saying words, although he could understand very little, only “Billy” several times and what sounded like “sorry.”

“Mac, wake up. Wake up, kiddo. It's okay. It's just a dream.” Charlie tried to get his arms around her and was rewarded by a sharp elbow in the ribs. Finally, he got her up against him, and began stroking her hair, while holding her firmly. “Mac. Mackie, can you hear me?” He asked, surprising himself by using the nickname he'd heard Ted McHale employ to refer to his eldest daughter. “Mac, sweetheart, wake up. You’re safe. You’re in New York.” But instead of waking, MacKenzie seemed to descend deeper into the grip of the dream. He could feel her heartbeat and breathing both speed up.

“He’s . . . he's . . . not . . . .” Whatever she was trying to say was interrupted by a violent fit of dry coughing that ended with her wheezing and gasping for breath. Instinctively, Charlie pulled Mac up into a sitting position as she struggled for air. Between gasps, Charlie thought that he heard her say, “stopped . . . breathing.” Then, just as he was about to tell her again that she was safe, Mac opened her eyes, and looked at him with a mixture of grief, guilt and panic.

“MacKenzie! Mac!” He repeated her name until she seemed to recognize him. “Kiddo, do you know where you are?”

She gave a slight nodded, and then nearly doubled over coughing and gasping. “Can't . . . breathe,” she wheezed between coughing fits.

“Where’s your inhaler? You do have an inhaler, don't you, MacKenzie?” She managed to shake her head, no. Jesus, Charlie thought, as his fingertips found her racing pulse. She was breathing in rapid, panicked gasps, quickly sucking in what air she could, and then, struggling to exhale what was trapped in her lungs. Charlie couldn't tell how many breaths she was taking per minute because coughing fits kept interrupting his count, but he knew that she was breathing much too fast and labored to be supplying herself with the oxygen she and the baby needed. It was too dark to see if her lips or nails were turning blue, and he had no idea where the fucking light switch was. “Why don't you have an inhaler?” he asked. “Has this never happened before?”

She shook her head, but then, stopped and nodded. “Iraq . . . in . . . Iraq . . . Sand . . . storm.” The words were gasps punctuated by more coughing, and wheezing breaths that sounded like her lungs were playing chords on an ancient organ.

“We need to get you medical attention.” Charlie started to get up. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

“No! Please . . . Charlie. I'll . . . be . . . fine . . . .” The rest of her protest was cut off by another coughing fit.

“Christ, Mac, you can't speak in full sentences. You can't stop coughing, or take a deep breath or empty your lungs. You’re wheezing every time you exhale. Your pulse is racing. You need a doctor. I have no idea if you’re getting enough oxygen for . . . for . . .”

“Okay,” she cut him off. “Okay . . . we’ll go.” He saw fear in her eyes. “A taxi . . . no ambulance . . . please.” He could see that she was trying to slow her breathing, and it was working to a degree, although each breath was still accompanied by the same alarming wheezy rumbling sound when she tried to breathe out fully. He looked uncertain. “My phone . . .” she said, “has an . . . app. It's in . . . the kitchen.”

Charlie ordered the taxi which was waiting at the door by the time he got a light coat around her and walked MacKenzie out of the apartment building. Mercifully the nearest hospital was less then 10 minutes away, and the emergency room was relatively empty in the early dawn. The ER staff jumped to it when Charlie said that he had brought in a pregnant woman having an asthma attack. Charlie had stalled slightly when he was told that he could come into the triage area, and asked if he was Mac’s father. He didn't know what he should say or whether Mac wanted him to come into the treatment room with her. She resolved his dilemma by grabbing onto his hand and saying, “my husband’s . . . father . . . can he . . . stay . . . with . . . me?”

Mac was quickly hooked up to an IV, given fluids, prednisone, oxygen, and put on an albuterol nebulizer. Within about fifteen minutes, she was breathing easier. Within two hours, she had been given a second treatment, and prescriptions for a ProAir inhaler and prednisone. Just as New York was waking up to the new day, they were told that she was free to go. 

“I feel so stupid, Charlie,” Mac said as they got into the cab for the ride back to her apartment. 

“Why?” he asked incredulously. “What about an asthma attack involves stupidity? Other than not having a rescue inhaler in your medicine cabinet.” The father in him couldn't resist pointing that out.

Mac gave him a pained look. “It was fluke, Charlie. It hasn't happened since I got out of the Middle East, and it's not going to happen again.” She sighed. “I'm really tired. We don't need to stop at a chemist . . . drugstore. I'm not taking the steroid anyway. Just take me back home. I'd like to go back to bed. Luckily, I've already taken the day off.” 

She gave him what she hoped would be a winning smile. “Don't you need to be at the studio?” 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Charlie retorted, giving her his most resolute stare. “We’re going to stop and fill your prescriptions, and then we’ll go back to your place.”

In the end, Mac prevailed, mostly by practically falling asleep in the taxi, and Charlie instructed the driver to take them directly to her apartment. Charlie got her into bed and grabbing a book from a pile on the floor, climbed in beside her, put an arm around her and told her to go to sleep.

“What book have you got there?” she inquired sleepily.

“Don't know.” He opened it. “A book of poetry. Maya Angelou.”

“Will you read some of them aloud?”

“Sure,” he replied, smiling at her. “Just close your eyes.” As he began to read Angelou’s Inauguration Day poem, he felt Mac relax and cuddle against him like Ned did when his grandpa read him a story. Like Ned, within minutes, she was asleep. 

The dream this time wasn't a full blown nightmare. She was telling Will about the baby in Kabul and that she was pregnant again when they were suddenly transported to the surgery of the British doctor who had told her that she would never conceive or carry a child to term. He was telling Will that the “kindest” thing to do was to abort the baby Mac carried to spare her the potential complications of a spontaneous miscarriage. Mac was trying to run, run away to protect her baby, but the doctor was holding tightly to her arm. She awoke with a start, and stared at objects and furniture around the room trying to reorient herself to reality. A second later, Charlie came dashing into the bedroom. She hadn't realized until she saw the look in his eyes that she must have called out in her sleep.

“I'm okay,” were the first words out of her mouth. Charlie smiled, and sitting down on the mattress, gathered her into his arms. “I thought you’d gone,” she said. “. . . when I first woke up.” Now, MacKenzie smiled. “Still in the fox hole with me, are you, Charlie?”

“Yeah, kiddo.” His sorrowful brown eyes looked even more compassionate than they usually did. “I told you when you started this . . .” Charlie paused, starting to say, “experiment” but then deciding that “journey” would be a better word. Moving a lock of hair out of her eyes, he began again, “I said I'd be with you at every step of this journey, and I will . . . I promise. I'll be here for you and for Will as long as there is breath in my body.”

The love she felt brought tears to Mac's eyes, as conversations with the Ambassador so often did. She didn't trust herself to speak, so she just nodded her understanding, and dropped her eyes to where her hand was resting on Charlie's chest. 

“Do you dream . . . I mean, does the nightmare come every time you fall asleep?”

“No. Not every time. Thank God for small favors.” She looked horrified by the thought. “Usually, I’ll go for days, weeks even, without remembering my dreams or being aware if I have them. And, this one,” she looked at him earnestly as she spoke, “it wasn't as bad as the other, earlier one. It wasn't about . . . “ Mac fought the desire to confide in him. “It wasn't about . . . what the other dream . . . nightmare . . . is about. This time, I was trying to tell Will about the baby and then we were in a doctor’s office . . . “ Her face darkened, and Charlie realized that she wasn't going to say more. They sat in silence for a few moments with Charlie just holding her close.

“This thing you’re afraid Will’s going to get upset about,” Charlie began after a few more minutes of silence had passed between them, “are you sure . . . .”

“I can't talk about it,” Mac interrupted forcefully.

“Yeah, yeah. I've got that. I wasn't going to ask you to tell me. I was going to ask whether you’re sure you have to tell Will.”

Mac eyes grew big, and Charlie wondered if he'd shocked her by suggesting that she keep a secret from her husband. “I don't know,” she replied at last. “Sometimes I think maybe . . . maybe if . . . if I lose this baby before he gets out . . . then, he'll never have to know . . . Only you and Reese and Leona know I'm pregnant, and you’d all keep my secret wouldn't you?” She turned and looked at him, imploring him to agree. “He’d just think we could never have children and . . . There’s no reason he has to know why.” Mac’s speech was becoming faster and more disjointed as her agitation level rose. “But if I don't miscarry until later . . . and he's here . . . .” Tears filled Mac’s eyes and she started choking on her words. 

“Wait. I . . . I . . . don't get . . . .” Charlie sputtered out his confusion, as MacKenzie turned her face into his chest and wept. “Mac, sweetheart, shush, shush, it's okay. Mac, why do you think you’re going to lose this baby?” 

“I saw . . . a doctor,” Mac said, her words a little muffled by the fact that her face was still turned toward Charlie's body. “He said . . . he said that too much . . . too much damage . . . so I wouldn't be able . . . to conceive . . . I wouldn’t have . . . children.”

Charlie was throughly confused. “Your doctor . . . but you’re pregnant now. Your doctor obviously knows this. I don't . . . .”

“Different doctor.”

“You’re seeing two different doctors?”

Mac shook her head. “Before. My doctor now doesn't know about any of it. She keeps telling me that everything’s fine. But it isn't, she just doesn’t know.”

“And, this other doctor, how could he know? You can't be sure he's right. You say he said you couldn't conceive, but you are pregnant. So, he was wrong. He could be wrong, Mac, about carrying the baby to term. He's not the Pope.” That got a small smile and a nod from MacKenzie. “You saw this other doctor . . . the first one . . . after Pakistan? After you got stabbed?”

“No. Before Pakistan. After I got out of Iraq, I went home for a few days. My brother had just had a daughter. The christening was kind of a big deal. I was one of her Godmothers. It made me think . . . about . . . children . . . having children, so I got myself checked out.” Mac was staring off into the middle distance as if she were in in a trance. “But . . . he said . . . the damage was . . . there’d been too much.” Saying this last part seemed to snap her back to the present from where ever Mac had gone. 

“Charlie,” Mac said and squeezed his hand. “I've got to stop before I say something I’ll regret. I'm sure that it seems silly but I think it might be easier for Will if I've not talked to anybody else before I tell him.” She paused, and looked up into his eyes. “Okay?” 

He nodded. “Whatever you need, kiddo. Whenever you're ready, I’m here for you.”

“You’re such a good man . . . such a good father.” She thought she saw just the slightest hint of pain and doubt pass over his expression. 

Mac sat up and straightened her shoulders. “I'm going to take a shower. Pull myself together. Then we can get something to eat.”

After showering and dressing, Mac found Charlie in the kitchen making oatmeal. “Don't look so worried,” Mac said as she took bowls out of a cupboard and spoons out of a drawer. “I'm not going to give up. I won't give in to despair. Surrender is not an option.” Charlie noticed that she squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine as she spoke, and wondered if she was aware of it. “I was thinking in the shower that you’re right, I am pregnant, and Sir Robert is . . . was, I think he's retired . . . just a doctor, not a soothsayer. He can't predict the future and he's not infallible. He can only give me odds. And, whatever the odds, I'm going to do everything right this time. I'm going to give this pregnancy the best chance I can for success,” she concluded with resolution written all over her face. What Will called her Churchill expression. “You called me a fighter . . . in D.C., remember? I got to thinking about that too in the shower, about what a miracle it was . . . your finding me and asking me to come to News Night. You were right. I am a fighter,” she said, putting a box of brown sugar on the table and opening bags of raisins and walnuts. “I fought for Will, and God knows that was tough at times,” she shuddered slightly, and pulled her thoughts away from seeing Will walk through the bullpen with Nina Howard on his arm. “I'm going to fight for this child.”

They ate in silence, each skimming a section of The New York Times that Charlie had retrieved from the landing outside Mac’s door. Then Mac spoke again. “I called Sloan. Told her that I was back from my mini-vacation and arranged to have dinner with her tonight.” She looked down at her arms and said, more to herself than Charlie, “I'll figure out some story to explain why I don't have a tan.” Then she smiled brightly at him. 

“You need to go back to your family. I'm fine now,” Mac told him while they were putting the dishes in the sink. Then her expression turned somber. “I can't thank you enough, though, for being here. I'm not sure how I'd have gotten through it . . . the nightmare and the attack . . . without you.” Much as she had done on Election Night after Will had announced their engagement, MacKenzie wrapped her arms around Charlie’s neck and buried her face against him. 

Nancy Skinner’s lips were pressed together in a thin line, as she prepared to speak again. “Charlie told me about it when he got home that night, and asked me what could happen to cause damage to a woman’s reproductive organs so that she’d be unable to conceive or carry a child to term. He was very sure that Mac had used the word, ‘damage,’ and that it wasn't the knife wound, because she was very clear that she saw this doctor before she went to Pakistan. Beside which that knife wound was in the wrong place anyway. I suggested endometriosis, fibroids or some other infection, but that didn't seem right to him because he felt so strongly that it was connected to a trauma, a violent trauma of some sort. Charlie was convinced Mac was suffering from PTSD, and that this event, whatever it was, was the genesis of her suffering. He was convinced that it was something specific, and not just the war. We started googling different things. Charlie rejected the idea of an ectopic pregnancy or a difficult delivery because he didn't think that she'd had a sexual relationship with anyone over there . . . we debated that one for quite a while, but he was adamant that there had never been anyone else but you. So, we kind of settled on a violent rape . . . since it accounted for all of the observable facts.” Nancy trailed off, lost in the memory of that evening with Charlie. 

“So that’s why Charlie thought Mac had been raped,” Leona summarized, when Nancy had concluded her narrative. 

“No. No.” Will blew out the words with a bone-deep sigh of exhaustion. “Not raped. Not physically, at least, and not in Iraq.” Will looked away, turning his gaze to the hospital cafeteria that was beginning to fill up with early lunchers. Nancy didn't think that he saw any of them. “Not raped, but just as emotionally savaged . . . brutalized . . . .”

“Will,” Nancy interrupted, placing a hand over one of his. 

“No,” he replied, rejecting her attempt at comfort, and looking away from her to the far side of the room. 

“I stepped over her, Nancy.” His voice was tight with self-loathing. “Can you imagine that? She was sobbing. Incoherent. She grabbed onto my pants leg, trying to get me not to leave, get me to stop, to listen, and I shook her off like a dog, and left her.”

“I know. I know, Will.” Nancy paused, drew in a breath, and glanced over at Leona. “Look at me, Will.” She waited until he turned his head. “That was a long time ago. And while that doesn't excuse what happened, it . . . it gives it . . . I don't know what the word is . . . context, I suppose. So much has changed for you both since then. You know each other, and yourselves so much better. You have a daughter and a son and a life together. That’s where your focus needs to be.” She put her hand up and caressed his cheek. “You are a good man, a kind, decent, honest man, who made a mistake that had catastrophic consequences.” She paused again. “And, one who’s so exhausted he can barely function.” 

Now it was Will’s turn to muster a smile. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Thank you for being part of our lives, our family.”

Nancy nodded in quiet acknowledgment. Then, glancing at her watch, she jumped up from the table. “Look at the time. I've got to get going, and you’ve got to get some shut-eye before Sloan and Don get here with Charlie. But first, let’s go back up to Maternity so I can get one more look at that gorgeous little guy of yours.” Nancy took Will’s hand and led him out of the cafeteria, and toward the elevator. 

When the elevator doors opened, there stood Sloan and Don, who had Charlotte in his arms. “Gramma Lee,” she shrieked in delight. “Gramma Nancy!” In the last three months, Charlie’s diction had transformed. Gone, well almost gone since “yipstick” remained, was her baby-talk propensity for substituting “y” for “l,” so that “Gamma Yee” had now become “Gramma Lee.” Similarly, she had added the first syllable of Nancy’s name, and no longer called her “Gamma See.” The joint nickname Reese had coined from it for the two older women, “Yee and See” would last, however, since the adults in the extended family would continue to say things like, “okay, at the head table we’ve got Will and Mac, Yee and See . . . .”

The two older women smothered the little girl with kisses, and then turned to greet Don and Sloan. “Daddy!” Charlotte shouted, holding out her arms as Don handed her to Will. Will hugged the child’s body to his own, closed his eyes, and breathed her in. Although always a whirlwind of motion, and more recently, of non-stop speech, she had a strangely calming effect on her father. Most people commented on the child’s resemblance to him, but Will always saw beyond the blonde hair and blue eyes. Will saw a tiny MacKenzie in his arms. 

“Uncle Don and Aunt Sloan said I can see Mummy. Go see my brovver.” Will planted a kiss in her blond curls. 

“You betcha, Butterfly. Let’s go.”

They all climbed into the elevator, just as the buzzer sounded to tell them they’d been holding the door open for too long. Will felt Nancy’s hand on his arm. “Context, Will. This is your context,” she whispered.

Yes, he thought, it is, and a damned fine context too.


End file.
